Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Pieter Boskma

Self-portrait as a dirty old man

The highest form of beauty is a budding beauty,
displayed to me once more by the girl
in front of me in the queue at Albert Heijn. She was about sixteen
and wore no bra. The nipples of her small breasts
were clearly visible under the thin fabric of her
rather tight-sized top, that looked like it was last year’s goods.
Her sagging jeans hung sweet and low, and while she fished
in her pocket for loose change, she yanked them further down
a couple of inches and away from her belly.
I stared straight at her creamy white hairless pubis.
Oh creamy white hairless pubis of a young girl!
And that face of hers, slightly astonished and shy,
but also flirtatious and forward, typical of a virgin
who has ceased to be a virgin long ago
and who gets her rocks off at the sight of men.
You are the living poem, I thought. Only the verse
that’s being written can compare with you,
opening in each word more splendid and mature,
just as your body rises towards perfection.
That’s why a poet adores young women of her sort;
they remind him of the verses he has yet to write.
I gazed after her cheeks and leered. Another perfect poem.

Zelfportret als vieze oude man

Zelfportret als vieze oude man

De hoogste vorm van schoonheid is de ontluikende,
zo werd weer eens bewezen door het meisje voor mij
in de rij bij Albert Heijn. Ze was een jaar of zestien
en droeg geen beha, de tepels van haar kleine borsten
waren duidelijk te zien door de dunne stof van haar
wat strakke, ogenschijnlijk vorig jaar gekochte topje.
Haar heupbroek zat erg laag, en terwijl ze muntgeld
uit haar zak opdiepte trok ze hem nog wat lager
en een paar centimeter los van haar onderbuik.
Ik keek recht in haar roomblanke, haarloze lies.
O roomblanke, haarloze lies van een meisje!
En dat gezicht, licht verbaasd en verlegen,
maar ook behaagziek en toeschietelijk, typisch
dat van de maagd die allang geen maagd meer is
en in de blik van mannen zich ontwaken voelt tot felle lust.
Jij bent het levende gedicht, dacht ik, alleen het vers
waaraan geschreven wordt kan zich met jou meten,
bij ieder woord ontrolt het zich immers fraaier en gerijpter,
zoals ook dat lijf van jou steeds verder opzwelt tot perfectie;
daarom houdt een dichter dus van zulke jonge vrouwen,
ze doen hem denken aan het vers dat hij nog moet schrijven.
Ik keek haar billen achterna en grijnsde. Het was weer gelukt. 
Close

Self-portrait as a dirty old man

The highest form of beauty is a budding beauty,
displayed to me once more by the girl
in front of me in the queue at Albert Heijn. She was about sixteen
and wore no bra. The nipples of her small breasts
were clearly visible under the thin fabric of her
rather tight-sized top, that looked like it was last year’s goods.
Her sagging jeans hung sweet and low, and while she fished
in her pocket for loose change, she yanked them further down
a couple of inches and away from her belly.
I stared straight at her creamy white hairless pubis.
Oh creamy white hairless pubis of a young girl!
And that face of hers, slightly astonished and shy,
but also flirtatious and forward, typical of a virgin
who has ceased to be a virgin long ago
and who gets her rocks off at the sight of men.
You are the living poem, I thought. Only the verse
that’s being written can compare with you,
opening in each word more splendid and mature,
just as your body rises towards perfection.
That’s why a poet adores young women of her sort;
they remind him of the verses he has yet to write.
I gazed after her cheeks and leered. Another perfect poem.

Self-portrait as a dirty old man

The highest form of beauty is a budding beauty,
displayed to me once more by the girl
in front of me in the queue at Albert Heijn. She was about sixteen
and wore no bra. The nipples of her small breasts
were clearly visible under the thin fabric of her
rather tight-sized top, that looked like it was last year’s goods.
Her sagging jeans hung sweet and low, and while she fished
in her pocket for loose change, she yanked them further down
a couple of inches and away from her belly.
I stared straight at her creamy white hairless pubis.
Oh creamy white hairless pubis of a young girl!
And that face of hers, slightly astonished and shy,
but also flirtatious and forward, typical of a virgin
who has ceased to be a virgin long ago
and who gets her rocks off at the sight of men.
You are the living poem, I thought. Only the verse
that’s being written can compare with you,
opening in each word more splendid and mature,
just as your body rises towards perfection.
That’s why a poet adores young women of her sort;
they remind him of the verses he has yet to write.
I gazed after her cheeks and leered. Another perfect poem.
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Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
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